Abbot

All these years

being self-sufficient

feeding on seclusion

clarity and silence

far away from the crowd

the entanglements

and old hard memories

limpid water and zen under

the sacred tree

raw aroma coagulated at the fingertips

every speck and bead

terse crystalline chapters

diffuse through the crisp sound of bells

amidst the morning mist

when it’s windy

Sanskrit on the strings

drifts out of tranquility

curls into the willowy

dusk gracefully

whether the grass

dark or light

the season glorious or dry

there’s no woe no joy

no disclosing the secrets of time

in the slumber of tired birds

last night’s rain swells the pond

before the temple in the mountain

residual raindrops fall from the corners

of the eaves intermittently

the door lock rusted afresh

the abbot counts the lingering tones

then disappears once more.